


The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, Gen, I used Astre for our!Ciel's name just because it seems to be the most popular one out there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: AU. Three ways Lizzy's life could have gone.1. She marries Ciel one fine June morning, when the birds are singing and the sky is pale blue.2. Ciel sacrifices Astre with a sliver of guilt running down his spine as he watches his brother convulse, an asthma attack wracking his poor, frail body before the cultists plunge a knife into his bird-frail chest.3. It takes so long for Elizabeth to recognize that the boy standing in front of her is not her Ciel but him—the one who held her hand and dragged her through golden leaves and gave her smiles so freely.





	The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

1.

She marries Ciel one fine June morning, when the birds are singing and the sky is pale blue. The gown she’s wearing has been custom made by Nina Hopkins and it is the finest confection of lace and silk in all of London, England. Her glittering bodice of crystal and lace emphasize her slim waist; the sheer satin around her arms and neck tease at fair, unblemished skin; and the tightly laced corset exposes and accentuates the lush softness of her full breasts. The bride’s golden curls are adorned with diamond pins the shape of small doves that hold a white, white veil above the Phantomhive tiara—a monstrous thing of platinum, blood diamonds, and sapphires from Kashmir.

The wedding itself is an outside affair, with Roman pillars and rambling ivy and pale pink carnations. Family and friends joke and cheer that the brightness of the day is a beautiful embrace, as if Eros and Psyche themselves approved of this love affair. The guest list (always a difficult thing) had been refined numerous times on account of Elizabeth and Ciel’s active social lives; the lady seemed to have acquaintances on every fair flowering state on the continent of Europe while his lordship was a man of many talents, chief among them being the ability to network and coerce people of unique—and oftentimes criminal—ability into his sanctified inner circle. And, in a show of pretentious expectation, these fellow inmates of the underworld were invited to the wedding as well, dressing themselves in silks and satins and looking so perfectly serene amongst his bride’s friends and relatives that Ciel had to bite back peals of laughter.

Leading his countess down the aisle, Ciel caught sight of his younger twin looking pale and slight in his velvet brocade and cobalt silk. They had never been particularly close in their adult life though they’d share some form of amity in their youth. The years of childhood companionship had waned considerably once they reached the age of thirteen. As heir, he was whisked away by their father on excursions around the estate, meetings with the Aristocrats of Evil, artillery drills with Uncle Diedrich, fencing with Aunt Frances, a shuffling between manor house and ballroom, always ready to charm and deduce the intentions of the political pawns their father introduced him to.

His younger brother, however, remained visibly shielded from the affairs of state and society. He was tucked away at the country manse to oversee covert operations and strategic maneuvers for the Queen’s Watchdog and sometimes sit in on Funtom’s board meetings. (Such scheduled appearances, however, were rare on account of his frail health and Ciel’s own distaste in having to chaperon his fully grown brother everywhere.)

And as years went on their adventures of make believe and pretend with Lizzy grew far and few in between; she had grown into a fine young lady upon her return from finishing school and Ciel was the doting fiancé, full of baubles and trinkets and every beautiful thing imaginable. During those interludes of time and space, Ciel would write her letters (sometimes they were prewritten and mailed on specific days at specific times) but he would always be aware of her affairs. It was amusing, he liked to think, that she spent so much time with his little brother—entertaining the sickly young twin with fantastical tales and vivacious conversation. Once he’d learned from a footmen tailing Lizzy that she had taken weak little Astre to see the fireworks celebrating Prince George’s engagement to Mary of Teck. She had bundled the two of them into a carriage with furs and hot cider and for a week after little Astre’s wide sapphire eyes had glowed at the memory of that night.

Ciel teased him with merciless frenzy though Astre, as always, was far too serious to give in.

Now, however, as they waltzed about the reception hall, he sees Elizabeth smile at Astre—a wistful, sweet smile reserved only for the people she loved best. And his twin, his ever predictable twin, blushes—unsure and shy—and Ciel, with bored interest, wonders if he should be concerned about his brother’s lingering infatuation.

But Elizabeth, in her gown and jewels, distracts him with her laugh and out of the corner of his eye, Ciel sees the aristocrats approaching.

Not another thought is paid to the brother he once loved.

 

In time, Ciel forgets about his brother’s shy blush and childish fancy. Doesn’t even remember their childhood rivalry over the sunshine girl after Lizzy gives birth to their first child, Maxence Vincent Phantomhive, and forgets about his brother almost entirely after Astre relocates to her majesty’s court. Two more children follow Maxence’s birth, Cecilia and Ethalind Victoria, both beautiful girls with their mother’s hair and his sapphire eyes.

For Elizabeth, the sight of her growing family is one of merriment and joy—to see proud, capable Maxence reach maturity with his confident half-smiles and razor sharp quips. To see dreamy, rosy-cheeked Cecilia fall for the duke of Beaufort’s son, and to watch with pride and sorrow as Ethalind departs for Italy, ready to take her final vows. Through all this, Elizabeth does her best to be a good wife—she tends to hearth and home, looking over their children and hiring the best tutors and professors money can buy. She is delicate and dainty, wearing pearls and silk dresses that display her fine décolletage—so fair and smooth, even as the seasons pass—and she blushes prettily every time her husband lavishes her with jewels befitting a queen. Her swords are still polished and silver but they now hang decoratively above the mantle place. She takes care to never laugh too loudly or quote Tocqueville instead of Keats and always, when evening comes, is ready to greet her husband with a kiss and smile.

Yet there are times, rare times, very late at night when Elizabeth cannot sleep and her mind conjures half-shadowed dreams of what could be. She remembers their childhood Arcadia, the three of them—herself, Ciel, and _Astre._ Clever, intuitive Astre who knew more than he ever let on, whose lips were turned in a permanent frown. His smiles were rare and often insincere but he could always conjure a genuine one for Lizzy when she came to visit. She remembers sitting by his bedside in the bleak midwinter, when his lungs were weak and he burned with fever. She tells him fantastical stories of far away lands—the distant deserts of Arabia with their cumin and spices scenting the air. Stories of snow queens and teardrop castles; of mermaids who fall in love with human princes and little girls searching for the moon shaped like a pearl.

And with each story she told, Lizzy gave a little bit of herself to the wide-eyed boy—to Astre, with his rapturous hunger for knowledge and bedroom walls that were satinwood bookshelves, piled high with books of every kind. She remembers how he would smuggle her tomes of Kant and Rousseau, how he saw nothing wrong with Elizabeth choosing philosophy over poetry. Who would sneak with her into the kitchens so they could steal extra sweets from the pantry. Who never mocked Lizzy for her lack of elegance and displays of strength.

Lizzy remembers the night Astre was set to leave—to depart forever from Phantomhive Manor for Buckingham Palace in pursuit of his political career. She remembers begging him to stay, tears spilling from her emerald eyes as she clung to him.

“Don’t leave me,” she begged with soft eyes and a heart full of longing. “Please don’t go.”

“I have no place here,” he reminded softly as he held her hands, speaking to Lizzy with a gentleness she did not think him capable of. “You and my brother have built your lives here. I must create mine elsewhere.”

“No!” She interrupted fiercely, “this is as much your home as it is ours! What of Funtom? You’ve always had a mind for numbers and figures and Ciel would be lost without you—“

“Elizabeth, _don’t_ —“ he sounded pained as they stood there, beneath the pale starlight.

And the countess, Astre felt torn, _Elizabeth_ looked a dream with tears and touches and, whether it was the madness of the moon pushing him to act or sheer, simple _lunacy,_ Astre gave in.

He placed a kiss so close to the corner of her mouth that even now, she can remember the warmth of his lips against her skin, how one arm came to wrap around her waist with such gentle reverence that Lizzy wanted to cry all over again. He cupped her cheek with a tenderness most reserved for saints and goddesses, looked into her eyes with such sweet earnestness that all at once, she _understood._

Even now the memory lingers, like spilt ink on white linen, forever etched in Elizabeth’s mind—two simple caresses, a brush of lips against skin…

Lizzy does not speak of this moment to her husband, the husband she loved and who she  _does_ love because how can she not? She has married the man she’d been promised to since the day he was born and with him, she has three beautiful children who she would gladly devote her life to.

All in all, she thinks, it is a good ending.

A better ending than some.

 

* * *

 

2.

Ciel sacrifices Astre with a sliver of guilt running down his spine as he watches his brother convulse, an asthma attack wracking his poor, frail body before the cultists plunge a knife into his bird-frail chest. And it is in that moment that Ciel Phantomhive, son of the Queen’s Watchdog, knows he has committed the unspeakable sin. He is Cain and he has followed through the Biblical promise, watching how blood oozes from the split in his brother’s chest, how it stains his torn, tattered shirt as the cult jeers and screams, thunderous in their coarse victory.

But Ciel will not be sacrificed—no. He will emerge from this prison, breaking through the shadowy waves, grasping the hand of the devil with a half-smile and the curious expression of malformed repose. Together, the demon and true-born earl return home to Phantomhive Manor, a smoldering pile of ash that is quickly rebuilt in a span of two days with the forces of black magic and whatever else—Ciel doesn’t care to know. He spends those days with Elizabeth, who rushes into his arms with tears and kisses and some part of him is delighted until she tentatively cups his cheek, as if she’s unsure of the face between her hands and he is suddenly filled with a sense of undiluted spite.

“Lizzy,” he says, with a touch of totalitarian force, “it’s _me._ I’ve come home.”

He looks into her eyes and feels a bloom of something entirely new erupting in him. He has sacrificed his brother and felt little more than a passing touch of guilt, the brush of a sparrow bird’s wing. Yet the awed look in Lizzy’s eyes, as if he were pope and king anointing her with holy water, sends a greedy chill down his spine. He is suddenly struck by the enormity of what he has done.

Of what has come to pass.

But then she flings her arms around him again, reassures Ciel that life can be rebuilt ( _Astre,_ he thinks he can hear her whisper, _I loved him too_ ) and the beauty of her crystalline tears reminds him of his brother, who used to cry when thunder cracked down the night sky, splitting apart darkness with a brief burst of light. The affection Ciel has ( _had_ ) for his brother was a chorus without song—it was always present but never verbalized. Though in the end, at his very core, he is a Phantomhive and they’d weathered the deaths of mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters for centuries.

What was one more death in the grand scheme of things?

So Ciel wraps his arms around Elizabeth’s waist and pulls her in close, breathing in the rosebud scent of her unbound hair. He decides he will build a mausoleum for Astre, a memorial of gratitude for the spilled blood of his only sibling whose death had done more for Ciel than Astre could have ever done in life. (The contract then was a small price to pay. After all, weren’t demons infinite? The span of his human existence ought to be little more than the blink of an eye for the devil in black.) 

And in time, Ciel makes good on his promise. He builds the white mausoleum with symbols of rebirth and rejuvenation. A constellation of stars cover his brother’s tomb and Ciel makes sure to plant white oleanders by the gravesite once every month. He marries Elizabeth and though he loves his wife, cannot hide the bitter disappointment when she gives him three daughters, each more beautiful than the last with their sapphire eyes and dark hair.

They are talented, exquisite and clever.

But they are not the heirs he needs.

It is only when the piper comes calling that Ciel forgets the words of his ancestors and falls into despair. “Give me more time, demon,” he demands (begs), “a few more years—I can’t die, not yet. Not now.”

Sebastian’s smile cuts like a knife and he bows with genteel mockery. Those mahogany-red eyes, always so abusive, glint with heavy condescension. “Alas, dear master, I’ve no patience for cowards.” He chuckles and the room’s temperature falls, chilling Ciel to the bone. “I am a demon, Earl Phantomhive, and I am hungry.”

 

* * *

 

3.

It takes so long for Elizabeth to recognize that the boy standing in front of her is not _her_ Ciel but _him_ —the one who held her hand and dragged her through golden leaves and gave her smiles so freely.

She bites her tongue when Astre takes a shallow breath, careful not to trigger his asthma. He refuses to look her in the eye and she doesn’t think she can stand it either way but when he finally does lift his head, he captures her in a pool of sapphire blue and she can feel tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Elizabeth…?” He hears her ask, unsure and reluctant as he continues to look at her, so bird-thin and frail.

“Oh Astre,” Lizzy brushes aside her tears and suddenly forgets everything she was going to say. She rushes into his arms and holds him close and feels her heart break when he jerks away instinctively, only to relax a moment later. “You’re home—you’re finally, finally _home._ ” She chokes out, burying her face in his shoulder and sobbing even when she knows she has no right to cry. “I missed you and _I’m sorry,_ I couldn’t protect you and—“

“Whatever happened is none of your concern.” His words are detached—almost demeaning—but his voice is soft, just shy of gentle, and Lizzy can’t remember ever seeing so much of Uncle Vincent in him.

“It was,” she argues stubbornly, knowing Astre would never rebuke her for being strong or bold or forthright. “You forget who I am.”

He says nothing but tightens his arms around her, breathing in Lizzy’s scent.

“You smell like summer,” he mumbles unconsciously. “Like peaches and honeysuckle.”

Lizzy ignores the scent of ash and bone on his clothes and holds him closer, gently pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before pulling back.

They look at each other, Elizabeth and Astre, and she gives him a watery smile that reminds the younger Phantomhive of all the saddest and most beautiful things in the world.

A moment later, he says it.

“I’m sorry.” His eyes are fixed on Elizabeth’s shoulder, as if he simply couldn’t bear looking her in the eye.

She frowns. “Whatever for? You needn’t be sorry for a single thing, Astre.” She takes his hand, holding in betwixt her own warm palms. “After all, _you’re alive._ ”

“Yes,” he spits out the word as if it were poison. “ _I’m_ alive. Not—I’m sorry.” The young earl repeats.

Lizzy looks away, staring at the open English field and wondering how anyone so young and small could take on such a responsibility. Slowly, she weaves their fingers together, catching Astre by surprise.

“Elizabeth?”

She shakes her head.

“Elizabeth, I’m sorry—“

“You’re alive, Astre.” She whispers as their eyes meet. “That’s more than enough.”

A strangled sound escapes his pale lips, a cry of disbelief and hope intermingled in one painful, back-breaking sound. His bird-thin hand tightens around Lizzy’s own, palms meeting and wrists brushing. Above, the sunlight dances across Lizzy’s golden curls and Astre can feel the crippling self-doubt he’s never quite managed to shed creep up on him again.

“Are you…sure?” His heart is an open wound, still bloody and raw, and the guilt that has arrested him since his brother’s passing is the salt that continually stings, burning into Astre’s flesh until it was all he knew. _Please,_ his jaw is wired shut, _let me be enough,_ he wants to cry, _for once—let me be enough._

He almost doesn’t register how they’ve sunk to the ground, grass brushing against their knees even as the cold January gale nips at their skin.

“Astre?”

“Yes?”

“Won’t you look at me?” He hears Lizzy urge as she presses their hands closer together—so close that he can feel her heartbeat gently pulsing.

It is with great reluctance that Astre lifts his head, meeting Elizabeth’s emerald-eyed gaze and—

The bountiful winter air escapes his lungs and the cold suddenly loses its chill. There, against a backdrop of pale blue and white sunshine, is someone so close to angelic perfection that the new earl can hardly stand it. Her bright golden beauty pierces his white-bone chest and Astre is left wanting. There is no word in the English lexicon that can remind him how it feels to look into the face of hope, to see her smile, to feel her touch.

“Astre,” she whispers with rosy lips and cheeks.

He says her name, though he can hardly hear his own voice. “Elizabeth.”

“You are enough,” she says and his hands cling onto her, “you are more than enough and— _you’re home._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I actually hate the idea that our!Ciel’s name could be Astre but considering most of the fandom has pretty much agreed that is his name, I decided to use it for the purposes of this fic. (Tbh I much prefer Cédric or Orion but I doubt that's gonna be the case. Ah well.) 
> 
> Side note: this was written way before we knew real!Ciel was loco possessive of our!Ciel so I based their relationship as one of antagonistic abuse and faded affection. 
> 
> Reviews welcome :)


End file.
